Songs and Shadows
by AbhorsenSabriel87
Summary: The world is a dark, cruel place. But maybe there's a spark of light in the Shadows. Rated M for violence, gore, strong language, alcohol and drug abuse, and other mature content. ES characters names changed , Shadowrun setting.
1. World So Cold

Disclaimer - I officially disavow any ownership of the _Shadowrun_ universe. Characters are directly paralleled with the characters of _Eternal Sonata_, which I also do not claim to own. All parallels are fundamentally similar, but the characters themselves are radically different in most respects. All _Shadowrun_ parallels/PC's are my intellectual property and not for reuse outside this fanfiction.

Advisory Warning - This chapter contains content not approved for young audiences, including: gore, alcohol abuse, emotional trauma, and bodily functions. Viewer discretion is advised.

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The bottle shattered against the cold concrete wall, spraying glass shards and whiskey in an amber explosion. Shortly after, a metal folding chair crashed into another similarly grey wall. Its form –already warped almost beyond recognition – twisted further, becoming less of an object of comfort and more one of tortuous and tentative existence. More objects, all cheaply made and in various stages of demolition, were treated with the same wrath. Their owner howled and screamed and wept as his memories and rage overcame him yet again, becoming a tempest of destruction in his own home (though he would hesitate to call it such).

This was not unusual.

When he drank, the memories came back. Sometimes they didn't, and it was for these nights of blissful ignorance that the Runner continued to poison himself when he wasn't working. More often than not, the nights began with one drink. Then another. Then the rest of the bottle. Finally, the memories he really wished to forget would come chasing back, grieving and enraging him with such force that violence inevitably ensued. Furniture would break, bottles would shatter… he was lucky he put his guns away or he might just blow his own damn brains out. But nothing would change; life in this damn world would move on, and there would be no one left to remember.

But why did it have to be _him_? Why did _he alone_ have to remember _everything_?

The whirlwind calmed, the drunken soldier breathing heavily with exertion as he collapsed onto his knees. The same concrete of his walls made up the floor: cold, hard, rough, and unforgiving as all his weight crashed into his knees. They would likely be bruised in the morning, but he couldn't care less at the moment. Tears dripped onto the porous material, seeping in with little more than a slight darkness to mark their absorption. There was a moment's pause, then a fist collided with the surface. An awful crack sounded through the room, repeated over and over as he continued punching the floor in his anger. Red now stained the grey, splattering more and more with every strike as old scars opened and new cuts formed.

"Why… why damn it?!" His voice quavered with emotion; rage and grief vying for top spot while anguish backed them both. "Why did you have to die? Don't you see what's happened, Travis?" His fist rested against the floor now, oozing blood as the broken man sobbed in his depression and fury.

"Don't you see what happened, you selfish son of a bitch?" he whispered to the air. "You can't tell me you don't see what I had to do. You made me this animal, you bastard…" He sobbed once, knowing it wasn't the truth, and curled up on the floor. He needed to sleep – to get away from this madness. Every night this happened, he thought the same thing in his drunkenness; sleep would make the memories go away, and tomorrow he'd sort things out.

But as he slipped away into unconsciousness, the memories turned into dreams and ravaged him further. The only benefit was that they never lasted long. Eventually, he would wake up screaming.

Tonight, they reminded him of the accident. Of Clair. All that blood, the shattered glass, the twisted metal and fiberglass… and there she was, pale and perfect. She could almost be sleeping if it weren't for the fact that her head hung brokenly and her chest cavity lay open before him.

Her eyes were open – her pretty, altered eyes whose irises had been a bright purple-pink. _Fuchsia_, she had called it, and only a few shades darker than her gently curling hair. It had looked like cotton candy when he'd met her, but now…

Those eyes stared at him blankly, accusing as the Lone Star Enforcer told him what had happened. An accident, they said; the other driver hit her head on at just the wrong angle, blowing her whole hydrogen system sky high. Even if she had lived until the ambulance had arrived, the explosion had evaporated her legs completely. He could only stare at her pale, beautiful face as the words turned into a drone behind him.

_ You did this_ she seemed to say. _You failed to protect me. Just like you failed him._

"I'm sorry," he whispered, reaching out to touch her face gently. In an instant, the expression on her face contorted to a snarl and she jolted upright in the driver's seat, lunging for him –

With a gasp, he awoke, shaking in terror and grief. A jolt passed through his gut, and the tall man dragged himself to the bathroom as quickly as he could, barely making it in time to vomit the bottle and a half of whiskey and the mostly digested meal bar into the grungy toilet. He remained there, retching until his stomach cramped and his entire day lay in the dirty grey porcelain, then heaved for another few minutes. Eventually, his stomach stopped convulsing and he collapsed in exhaustion, dropping into a moment of dreamlessness on the bathroom floor.

The moment didn't last long. They never did.

He startled awake an hour or two later, panicking for a moment as he struggled to remember where he was. The stench brought his memory back, and he gagged as he fumbled for the lever of the toilet, flushing the contents away. He pulled himself up, crying out briefly at the pain in his right hand, then staggered from the tiny room back to the studio's main room. Here, he collapsed on the stained and ragged couch, the smell of human being and alcohol and blood reminding him that it was his. He reached blindly for his phone or watch, managing to grasp the latter somewhere nearby on the floor. Peering wearily at the time, he groaned and almost flung it across the room, but refrained and simply closed his eyes to get what little fitful sleep he could. It was almost another hour before his nerves calmed and he drifted into a light doze, twitching at every noise in the small apartment.

In the morning, he would wake, and he would clean up and take care of the room. The blood and alcohol would be mopped up, the furniture would be righted (what was salvageable, at least), and it would almost appear as if nothing had happened. And he would go about his day in the same mind.

But he would always know. He would always remember. It may be the next night or another week, and he would still remember. And despite that, it would happen again. It would always happen again.

However, tonight would be one of the last nights it happened to him _alone_.

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~AS87


	2. Palladio

The door to the _Baroque Castle_ opened smoothly under his hand, his fingerprints marring the burnished gold plating of the handle imperceptibly as the crystal-cut bullet-proof glass warped the room within. As he entered, a man stood talking with three people – wait staff, by the look of their uniforms.

He was relatively tall, his features somewhat Germanic and somewhat Slavic in their noble gentleness, his hair a tawny that reflected gold and copper in the bright lighting emanating from the crystal chandeliers bolted into the vaulted ceiling of the ballroom/restaurant. His white suit cut perfectly into his lean frame, accenting his perfect posture and undeniable authority as well as his long legs and trim waist. He absently adjusted his tie – white fading to a pale blue the same color as his collared shirt, the color of ice in the harshest winter – as his almost golden brown eyes surveyed the people before him, noting who had soaked up the information and who had been lost. Satisfied, he dismissed them with a smile and a word, his face and voice conveying the pride in his people he had not stated outright and the affection he showed openly. He watched them as they left for a moment, then turned to face the man walking towards him.

"Jay, you're not on the clock until eight-thirty," he stated, though the smile remained as if they shared a joke. "Why are you –" Abruptly, his eyes noticed the man's disheveled appearance; the hastily adorned street clothes over a too tall and too lean body, black hair sticking up on all ends and barely contained in a ponytail, the dark circles under darker eyes lined with years of pain… and then the right hand, bandaged and spotted with red as it clenched loosely at his side. The smile faded into concern, and he looked back to those eyes. Black pools, like the space between stars, revealing nothing but a mask of uncaring emptiness. With a glance and nod to another person, the gentleman motioned for his guest to follow, then lead the way to the kitchen.

Once out of sight of any passing guests, the look of concern solidified into scrutiny as he surveyed the figure before him. His too-tall friend (just about two meters, but still quite a bit taller than the philanthropist) had grown even leaner and more starved recently, his previously well-fitting custom clothing now looser and seeming to shroud the man in blue jeans and a beaten up leather bomber. His eyes were not only dark from exhaustion but reflected too much pride to state outright what was wrong to his friend, the lines of laughter and premature age deepening as he refused to speak. The bloody appendage told him everything he needed to know.

"You were drinking last night?" It was a question that was not a question; they both knew he had been. The dark reflection of the two men glared momentarily at the owner, then relaxed into bitterness as he answered.

"I dreamed about Clair again, Chris."

"It wasn't your fault, you know. We've been through this." The dark haired man huffed, grumbling something non-committal, his eyes averted to the floor to his left. The pale man looked him over once more, his slightly down-turned eyes crinkling a bit at the corner as he cocked a slight smile. "You look half starved, Jay. Let's get you a bite to eat. When was the last time you had a real meal, anyway?"

"Last Monday, when you made me try that new fish dish of yours. How'd it go over, anyway?"

"Pretty wel- did you say last _week_?" The blonde stared at him incredulously and the sheer innocence of the look made the Runner grin sheepishly. "_Jay!_"

"What?" His friend rolled his eyes and dragged him to a chair, plopping him down heavily in front of the chef on duty. "Make this man something to eat, and make sure he eats _all_ of it."

Jay winced, glancing up at the suddenly regal man behind him as he ordered the kitchen with the grace of a nobleman ordering beloved vassals. It really wasn't that big a deal; operating in the Shadows was not a terribly easy job, and neither was his second career. Only the work he received as a bouncer from one of Christopher Saeder-Lyre's own nightclubs paid the bills regularly. Sometimes, not even that did it. It paid for his apartment, basic food supplies, and ammunition for his custom guns. His bike usually had to be supplied with… _alternative_ income.

As his friend spoke, the kitchen burst into action; supplies for the evening were prepared, daily specials outlined, all ingredients prepared to five-star perfection. The chef before him had disappeared in a whirl of activity, and despite his initial objections Jay was beginning to feel rightfully hungry. He glanced around, noticing the blonde only when he pulled up a chair to sit beside his shadowed companion.

"What happened?" The question was unusually straightforward for Chris. Even so, Jay carefully mulled over his words before responding.

"Vilette called yesterday. 'Fugue' hasn't been sighted in almost a month." At the second name, Chris paled, coughing once to clear his throat and return to his former demeanor. When he looked back at his friend, his eyes had widened slightly in concern.

"They have no idea his whereabouts, then." Again, not a question. Jay shook his head, the mess of black hair upon his scalp quavering slightly at the motion. The philanthropist sighed heavily, leaning back in his chair in a very non-regal manner as he ran a hand through his stylishly messy locks. He thought for a moment, then sat up again. "Not much we can do then, I suppose. He hasn't come for you or Francesca yet –"

" 'Falsetto' started her Run three days ago. I've had no contact since." Silence fell between them, laying heavily on their voices. The moment passed, but not entirely, when Chris replied.

"She never calls you when she's Running, Jay. For the same reason you two never work together anymore."

While true, it still didn't ease the tension at all. The moment only broke when a plate of food had been set before the dark-haired man; a bowl of soup and a sandwich, though to be so simplistic would be insulting to the chef who vanished away the moment the plate had been released from his hands. The owner smiled and shook his head, mood banished for the moment.

"Eat, Jay. I'll get you some water, then you should sleep."

"We need to talk about work," he argued, but his eyes strayed to the meal and his stomach pined in hunger, so the statement was weak at best. Chris merely shook his head and mouthed 'after' as he left the kitchen, likely preparing the front of the restaurant for his lunch guests. The Runner watched him go, then eyed the food hungrily before starting in on it. It was good; Jay had to force himself to slow down and enjoy it (mostly so that his stomach wouldn't rebel again). He didn't notice that a glass of water appeared later until he looked up, but by then his friend had vanished again, leaving him alone to eat.

After he finished, Jay took the dishes to the washing station and cleaned them himself, rinsing each dish and utensil before placing them in the proper compartment of the industrial dishwasher for sanitation. He'd been a guest in his friend's kitchens enough to know the man's quirks. Glancing about the bustling, aforementioned room, he edged his way into Chris' office and locked the door.

The room was as elegant as his friend; shades of blue and green glowed dimly from low LCD lights while plants gave the room the feeling of being something living and breathing. A solid wood coffee table of some white wood Jay didn't know (and had never cared enough to ask about) sat in the middle of the room, two old-fashioned and ornate sitting couches on either side. It was said that the heir to the Saeder half of Saeder-Krupp Industries preferred to meet with clients on common ground and as equals, regardless of any status or position. This room, in some small way, reinforced that image.

Picking the couch with its back to the door, Jay sank into the plush cushioning to wait. He knew it would only take a few minutes, and his friend had a key to his own office, so it would keep him from being disturbed for a bit…

Eight minutes later, Chris entered to find his friend fast asleep on the couch, seeming a rare kind of peaceful that only the dreamless. Smiling, the future CEO picked his way carefully over to the other couch with his drink, sat down, and watched over his lifelong friend as he received the rest he so desperately needed.

()

Two hours later, Jay awoke the sound of papers rustling and clinking china. He bolted upright, knowing the sounds to be not of his apartment and glancing around wildly to discover his location. His gaze settled on Chris, then on the table. The blonde had been signing documents of delivery for the _Baroque Castle_, drinking that floral tea he enjoyed so much. Now he stared calmly at the startled man, placing his pen down on the table carefully before straightening.

"Did you rest well?" he asked politely. Jay shifted, running a hand through his ragged hair before nodding.

"How long was I out?"

Chris chuckled. "You make it sound as if you were knocked unconscious."

His friend grinned in response, a rare expression that caught the young entrepreneur off-guard for a moment as nostalgia swept over him. He managed to shake it off and laugh as Jay retorted with, "Yeah – knocked out by an old man in a toga with a bag of sand. I swear the bastard gets more cocky every day." They both shared the laughter for a moment, brightening the room even in its tranquil gloom. Chris raised the lights with a command, still smiling at his oldest and closest friend.

"So, I've decided you're not working here tonight," he started, shifting through some papers. Jay cocked his head slightly in puzzlement – a gesture Chris had always found endearing in his older companion. Like many of these endearments over the past few years, however, it had become rarer than black diamonds. He continued, hoping not to lose the other man's interest too quickly. "I have a new place in Seattle I'd like you to bounce for. It seems a little more your style than all of this Bellevue nonsense. You may even have some fun."

As a restaurateur and club owner, Christopher Saeder-Lyre had businesses all over the world, though his best work had been on the west coast of North America, specifically in California and what had previously been Washington/British Columbia before The Crash and the Treaty of Denver. He operated specifically within the Greater Seattle Area, an area retained by the United Canadian and American States after the Salish-Sidhe Council carved out their own piece of the Canadian/American pie, and nearly all of his businesses were high-end toys for high-end VIPs. However, his clubs in Seattle had one key use that very few others allowed – they were all known as meeting places for Runners. Neither Lone Star nor Knight Errant bothered with shutting down the locations because they were too well-paid to bother, and honestly Chris had his own staff of Runners to keep everyone else in line.

Jay was one of these Runners much of the time, and knew when Chris sent him someplace else that there was bound to be trouble there. "Where is it?"

"Pioneer Square, right on the street. I took over the old Comedy Underground building, remember? The club is next door, with exits…" He sighed and shook his head, getting up and walking over to a computer for a moment. "Forget it, here's the blueprint data." A small drive popped out of the slim device, and the blonde handed it directly to Jay. "Study it at your leisure – I know you have a computer in that wreck you call an apartment.

"In any case," he continued, sitting back down and rifling through more paperwork, "I want to make sure that my new show there goes as planned. Actually, consider yourself a stage bodyguard for the night – these people asked for extra protection, just in case, and I trust you more than anyone."

"Just in case of who?" The _what_ was implied easily. The _who_ was what mattered.

Chris shrugged nonchalantly, palms up in a display of hiding nothing. "No idea. It's not any organized crime that I can see, nor any debts. Frankly, I'm surprised they wanted to play at my club rather than in my restaurant, but such are the ways of performers."

Jay mulled over this for a moment, suddenly interested. If they could have chosen to play in one of the higher-end lounges and restaurants rather than a club, that said a lot about their crew, popularity, and skill. It left more questions than he liked in the dark, but he supposed it would work fine. So long as he wasn't seen, trouble wouldn't find him.

"All right," he breathed, barely letting the words whisper out as a chill settled down his spine. "Tonight, huh… what's the group?"

More rifling through papers. "Let's see… ah, here it is. _The Eternal Sonata Musical Troupe_. Combination circus act and musical performance. Kind of like Cirque du Solei, back before the Crash. They have a three hour slot for performance, starting at eleven. They should arrive at ten, but their manager told me they'll set up fast so you may not even see them come in. Don't worry about watching them until the performance starts – they can handle themselves before that."

"Got it. Any picts?"

Chris shook his head. "Nothing clear. They either have a Gremlin in the group, or a really subtle haze spell." Another shrug. "This is all I have, Jay."

The dark-haired man nodded. "Fine. Remember which name to use this time."

The entrepreneur sighed heavily. "That was one mistake, Jay, and well over six years ago. I remember without you telling me now." His tone was aggravated, but his eyes shifted slightly to the side, conscious of the mistake more clearly that he should have been. "You're going in as a Clearshot tonight – I gave them that name, at least. They may give you another one, but that's up to them. For now…"

Jay grinned. "Don't worry, Chris – I've had the name 'Jiruba' a long time. Long enough to get used to it." The blonde nodded, standing and shaking his friend's hand in the same motion.

"Don't get yourself killed out there," he warned, humor dancing in his eyes. "You know how Francesca is."

"Kill the messenger, then the assassin," the Runner stated mildly, smirking darkly. "Don't I know _that_ one well." The two laughed momentarily, then went their separate ways. For Jay, he needed to get ready for the night.


End file.
